His Hands
by TVJunkie1013
Summary: CharlesMargaret pairing. A shiver passes through her as her eyes focus specifically on his hands ...


**Title:** His Hands  
**Author:** Me  
**Pairing:** Charles/Margaret - Margaret POV  
**Prompt:** #38 Touch  
**Rating: **16+  
**Word Count:** 2161  
**Disclaimer: **I wish I owned something other than a MASH t-shirt … but alas, I don't.  
**Summary:** A shiver passes through her as her eyes focus specifically on his hands …  
**Warning**: None.

**A/N:** Another Charles/Margaret fic. My Charles!muse has decided to take control and has told me that he wants to be sexed up. Who am I to tell him no? (Although my BJ and Hawkeye!muses are feeling a little left out and my Trapper!muse is pissed because I'm giving Charles all of his action with Margaret. Muses are a pain in the neck!) Also, there are some awkward tense shifts and I apologize for that.

* * *

The OR was almost completely empty. There were only four of them here for this surgery: Charles, Margaret, Nurse Baker and Nurse Able. A young soldier had been brought in early this morning with what they all thought were relatively minor injuries. He had a single bullet wound in his chest; the bullet had gone straight through and exited out of his back. Charles had opened him up and hadn't seen anything unusual. He had closed the boy and sent him into post-op for recovery. However, at 2:11am the next morning, the boy went into cardiac arrest and after some tests and discussion, the medical staff determined that either his heart or possibly a major artery must have been nicked by a bullet. A wound that no one had been able to see during the initial operation. The soldier would definitely need surgery again to seal up the hole and to stop the bleeding. 

Charles would be his surgeon. He had been the original doctor to work on him, and with his skill in thorasics, he was the obvious choice. Able was the nurse on duty, Baker had been brought in to handle anesthesia and vitals, and Margaret was here to observe her staff and to serve as back-up if she was needed.

The patient was prepped and Charles took a moment to discuss the surgery with his team. Then he began.

* * *

Margaret studies him while he works. The way his fingers wrap delicately around his scalpel as he makes his first cut into the chest of the boy whose life he's about to save. How the muscles in his arms move with each smooth stroke. The way the blade sings under his skilled guidance. She feels like she is watching an artist in the process of creating a masterpiece. 

A shiver passes through her as her eyes focus specifically on his hands -- and she wonders what it would feel like to have those strong surgeons hands on her body.

* * *

His fingertips loosen each button one by one; slowly, steadily, until the halves of her shirt fall open, exposing her nude skin to the cool night air. Warm palms slide beneath the material and push it gently away from her body. Then, soft lips are on her skin, brushing against the side of her throat and moving into the curve between her neck and shoulder. 

One hand finds the small of her back, the other moves into her hair as he lays her down. His mouth travels along the center of her body, pausing at each breast to press a gentle kiss on the soft, dark skin of both nipples. When he reaches her navel, he sits, hands coming away from her back and meeting at the waist of her pants. With his skilled fingers, he quickly opens the snap and zipper, then pulls the clothing away from her.

Starting at the tips of her toes, he begins to kiss every inch of her, leaving a wide swath of goose bumps in his wake. Her skin tingles pleasantly as he commits her body to memory with his hands and his lips. He takes his time. It is pure, sweet agony, and when he finally returns to her mouth, Margaret is aching for him; her very flesh screaming out his name. Heat pools within her, churning like fire in her groin as she waits for him to take her.

And when they eventually join, she feels absolutely complete.

* * *

"Major?" 

…

"Excuse me, Major Houlihan?"

…

"Margaret!" Charles' deep baritone startles her out of her trance. She exhales roughly, her eyes snapping up guiltily and locking on his. "Am I disturbing you, Major?"

"No," Margaret's voice is shaky. Her body feels flushed, hot. He clothes are sticking to her sweat-soaked skin. She clears her throat and gives herself a small mental shake. "Why would you think that?"

"Well," Charles has that slightly annoyed tone to his voice that everyone in camp is very familiar with. His eyes drop back to the patient laying on the table in front of him. "You've been staring at my hands for the entire duration of this surgery."

"I have not," she tries to sound convincing. She doesn't.

"Actually, yes you have been. Close for me," Charles hands the sutures to Able and removes his surgical gloves. He tosses them into the trash, then removes his mask and discards that as well. Four or five strides later, he is standing directly in front of Margaret. "As a matter of fact, you were studying them so closely that I believe if I were to give you an exam on them right this moment, I fear you'd pass with exceptionally high marks."

"He's right, Major. You have been starting at Dr. Winchester's hands this whole time."

"Thank you, Baker, but I do not need your assistance in proving what Major Houlihan was or was not doing in regards to my hands."

"I'm not going to argue with you, Charles." Margaret forces her tone to remain neutral, but she can feel a blush burning up her cheeks, staining them a deep pink. "If you think I was staring, fine. You can go ahead and think that. And if I was staring, it was just because I appreciate your skill as a surgeon. Nothing else."

"I see." Charles' gaze settles on her and Margaret sees in his blue eyes, something clicking into place. His expression changes and he tilts his head to the side. "Though, why would I think any differently?" he comments quietly, but he's got a new tone to his voice. One Margaret has never heard before. A sort of throaty, almost guttural sound that she can feel vibrating through her spine. Heat begins to swirl in the deepest part of her. Her face darkens from pink to maroon.

"What," she looks away quickly and busies herself with supplies, "do you mean by that?"

"Well, what reason could there be for your interest in my hands," he says, lips curling into a smirk of challenge. He waits until she turns back toward him, then thrusts his hands into the air in front of her face, "other than my skill as a surgeon?"

"There is no other reason," Margaret snaps and immediately regrets it because Charles' smirk grows into a wide smile. "I believe your surgery is finished. There's no need for me to be here." She fixes him with a hard stare. "Good night, Major."

* * *

Margaret can't get away fast enough. She hears him chuckling as she rushes out of the OR. Her heart is racing and even though her tent is only a few steps away, she feels as if she'll never get there. Grasping the knob, she jerks the door open and pulls is shut behind her, slamming it into the frame with a loud bang. She engages the lock, rips off her scrubs and throws herself face-down onto her cot. A frustrated scream erupts from her, but it is muffled by her pillows. 

The moment passes and Margaret rolls onto her back. She stares at her ceiling, shaking her head from side to side in total disbelief.

"You are such an idiot, Houlihan," she chides herself angrily. "You acted like a love-sick schoolgirl in that OR tonight. Staring at Winchester's hands! What are you? Sixteen?!? And then, running out of there as if you just got caught with your hand in the cookie jar. What is wrong with you?"

A sharp knock on the door startles her silent. Margaret waits, hoping that whoever is at her door thinks she's not here and moves along. A second knock sounds and her heart falls.

"Who's there?" she questions, but she already knows who it is. Her head, though, keeps chanting "Don't be him! Don't be him! Don't be him!"

"Margaret, it's Charles."

"Go away, Major. I have nothing to say to you."

"Please let me in."

"No."

"Please, Margaret."

"Why do you want to come in?"

"I would really like to talk with you."

"About?"

"I'd rather not shout through a door."

Charles' voice is quiet, sincere. Margaret can hear him breathing through the thin mesh of her screened window. Deep inhales followed by long, slow exhales of breath. She finds that the sound is very calming. Comforting.

"Margaret," almost a whisper now. "Please."

She runs her hands through her hair and adjusts the t-shirt and shorts she's wearing. A quick brush of her fingertips across her cheeks sweeps the few stray tears of embarrassment that she'd shed during the temper tantrum she'd had only moments ago. She flicks on the bedside lamp, unlocks the door and flings it open. Charles is standing just outside her tent. He takes a few steps forward and enters. The door swings shut behind him.

"Here you are. I let you in. What do you want?"

"I just thought I'd check and make sure you were okay."

"Why wouldn't I be okay?"

"Margaret, stop that."

"Stop wh …"

"That," Charles points his finger at her for emphasis, "right there. You keep answering every one of my questions with another question. It's a rather annoying habit."

"Oh, well, I'm sorry I'm annoying you, Charles." She tries to turn away from him, but he grabs her by the wrist. The pads of his fingertips burn into her skin; the heat from his touch rushes through her and coils tightly in her gut. She attempts to pull out of his grasp, but he holds tight and she locks her eyes on his. "Let me go."

"No," his gaze doesn't waver.

"Charles …"

"No, I told you I wanted to discuss something with you, and we're going to discuss it."

"Fine."

"Shall we sit," he asks, gesturing over to her cot. Margaret nods and Charles relaxes his grip on her. He leads her over to her cot and they both sit. "I want to know what happened with you in the OR tonight. I want to know why you were staring at my hands." She starts to speak, but Charles silences her by pressing his finger against her lips. "Don't deny it. I saw you, Margaret. Every time I glanced in your direction, your eyes were fixed on my hands. And I know you weren't actually watching the surgery. You've seen me do the exact same procedure ten times, and you've never been that interested in it before." He gives her a genuine smile, and Margaret can't help but return it. "You seemed as if you were somewhere other than in the OR. Where were you?" he asks as he brushes a stray lock of blonde hair off of her forehead and tucks it behind her ear.

"I was here."

"Here? In your tent, here?"

"Yes," she almost laughs at Charles' confused expression, but she stops herself. "I was imagining I was in here."

"What were you doing here? I mean, what were you imagining doing here?"

Margaret feels her face go beet red at his words. She drops her eyes from his and focuses her gaze on his knees. Unfortunately, Charles has one of his hands resting on his thigh and she has to snap her eyes closed before she starts thinking about …

"I can't … Charles. I … it's private," her cheeks are burning with embarrassment.

Then, his fingertips are under her chin and he is lifting her face to his.

"Tell me." He has that tone to his voice again. The one she heard in the OR. And his eyes are so honest, so open, that Margaret can't help herself.

"How about I show you?"

She leans forward and touches her lips to his. He inhales sharply, but doesn't pull back. Their mouths move together timidly, each testing the other's boundaries without going too far, neither one wanting to break the kiss.

Margaret is the one who pulls away first. She smiles when she sees that Charles' eyes are still closed.

"That is what I was doing."

"Kissing me?" Charles' eyes open into small slits. "That's what you were thinking about in the OR?"

"I have a feeling that you know the answer to that question. I think you already knew before you came here tonight."

"Maybe," he agreed sheepishly. "But, I find it hard to believe that is the only thing you had on your mind."

"Well, kissing is just for starters," she replies and runs her fingertips across his kiss-swollen lips. "Because if you really think about it, what does kissing have to do with my apparent obsession with Major Charles Emerson Winchester's hands?"

"Ah, now that is an interesting question, Margaret." Charles studies his hands for a moment, his lips curling into a grin. He raises his eyes and reaches out for her. "Shall we figure out the answer together?"

**The End**


End file.
